Cough Syrup
by tooschoolforcool
Summary: Everything reminds John of Sherlock.


The sound of the keys jingling in his hand finally snapped himself out of his train of thought. He didn't even notice that he was home. Tired from a long day at the hospital, he unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street and shuffled in. He gave Mrs. Hudson a curt hello and coughed.

"Oh John, do you have a cold? The weather's been terrible lately," she said.

She was right, his sopping wet jacket and snow covered shoes proved her point.

"I'll go get you some cough medicine. For a doctor, I would think you'd know how to take care of yourself!"

And before he could say anything she strode into her room. He walked back upstairs and brewed himself and Mrs. Hudson some tea. That would remind her that _he's_ supposed to be taking care of _her_. He hung his jacket and sunk into his armchair in front of the fireplace. He was too tired to reach for the newspaper, so he examined the room instead. It was tidy. Well, as tidy as it can get. The flat's been kept better since. . . Well, since heads and body parts were no longer kept in the fridge. _Ouch. _There was always a pang in John's heart whenever he thought of. . .his old roommate. His eyes lingered to the sofa.

"Bored," he heard his mind.

_Ouch._

Wherever John looked it always came back to. . ._him. _John and Mrs. Hudson rarely used his name. They found it too painful. It's been a year, and no miracle. John stood up, trying to shake these thoughts out of his head. He went to go start the fireplace when he noticed something was out of place. What was it?

The violin.

Why was it out? He, for certain, didn't take it out. He kept it in the spare bedroom with the rest of the ownerless things. _Spare bedroom. _What a term. Mrs. Hudson probably took it out for dusting. He stood there staring at the violin for as long as he could without touching it. He felt his hand reach out for the instrument, but hesitated.

_He touched this, _he thought.

_Sherlock touched this._

_Sherlock._

When his fingertips and the neck of the violin met, he found it hard to let go. His fingers lingered over the fingerboard and the lower bout. He traced the neck and felt the chinrest. He plucked the E string and remembered the music that would come from this retired instrument. He made a mental note to give it away. No one was using it anyways.

He didn't even realize Mrs. Hudson in the room until he sneezed and she offered him a handkerchief. She placed a tray with a bottle of cough syrup, the tea John brewed, and some toast on the side table where the violin previously sat.

"I miss him too, dear," she whispered and kissed John on the forehead.

She slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her without a word. John sunk back into his chair, fingering the violin while sipping tea. He downed a good portion of cough syrup and waited for the drowsiness to take him. He didn't know how long he sat there, but it was long enough for the sky to darken. He finally got up due to the drowsiness finally kicking in. It took him a while to walk into his bedroom since he was coughing and wheezing the whole time. By the time he reached his bed, he collapsed and fell asleep instantly.

The dreams were always the same, but they were always jumbled up. John could feel himself falling, but he was still on the ground. Someone else was falling. He was watching his best friend fall to his death. He felt his phone ring with the last conversation he'll have with his roommate. His hand is reaching to the sky, but there's nothing he can do but scream. Scream the name he can never bring up now. The name that is forever etched in his mind. In his heart.

"_Goodbye, John." _

He woke up with a start. He found himself in an awkward position and he was sweating. He threw the covers off him and gave a loud cough. The medicine hasn't been helping. He glanced at the clock. It was two o'clock in the morning. John sat up, knowing he won't be able to sleep for another good hour or so after the dreams. He felt himself stand up and walk out his bedroom door. He was drawn to the spare bedroom for some reason. If he trusted his feet to take him home from the hospital, he trusted them now. He felt a doorknob in his hand, a doorknob that hasn't been turned in a long time. He pushed the door open and walked into the spotless, but dusty room. He moved toward the wardrobe and brushed his hand across the coats and scarves. He never went through the detective's belongings. He felt that it was an invasion of privacy, so he just sat on the bed. On the bed where he once tucked in his mumbling roommate after the Irene incident. On the sheets that were once wrapped around a stubborn consulting detective in Buckingham Palace. On the pillow where a mop of dark hair used to lay on. John sneezed to cover up the tears that were about to come.

"Bless you." said a voice that he knew so well.

Said a voice that he hasn't heard in too long. A voice that deduced countless people. A voice that would mock Anderson and irritate Donovan. A voice that used to ring out across 221B Baker Street. A voice who's last words were a farewell to John Watson.


End file.
